Anti Theft Device
by Beeblebabe
Summary: Mitani does more than just cheat at go...


            What Mitani always remembers is their hands. Not to say he doesn't look at their faces -- he does, checks their eyes for that glint of want, their mouths for that little smirk -- but if he thinks about them later, he doesn't remember those details. He remembers the ridged, broken fingernails that fluttered out the edges of the bundle of thousand-yen notes, the wedding band that clicked on the hard case of a new MD player, the knotted fingers that slipped a phone number into his pocket.

            There were a lot of reasons why he should have turned away and left Kishimoto there, why he should have laughed and said, "Sorry, not for you." He was too young, he didn't have enough money, he'd want things that Mitani wasn't interested in giving. But the reason he really should have stopped it before it started was his face, clear and perfect in Mitani's memory.

            "Oh, it's you," he'd said when they met again, the first time since that tournament.  Their hands had connected while reaching for the same album, but Mitani had continued on, picking it up to flip it over and check the track list, to eye the price.  "Oh, it's you," he'd said as he looked at the clean, perfect hand still hovering over the empty spot on the rack.

            "Have we met?" Kishimoto asked, tone low and terse, as he fluttered his fingers through the remaining CDs on the shelf.  Mitani had grabbed the last copy.

            He wasn't looking when Mitani glanced up, or maybe it was just enough that the glare on his glasses could hide his eyes. He smiled a little and tapped the CD against his lips. "You don't remember?" He shrugged and started to put the CD back on the shelf, then brought it back to more closely examine the cover art. "I guess it doesn't matter, then.  Maybe we haven't met."

            "Are..." Kishimoto faced him and pushed up his glasses.  "Are you going to buy that?"

            Mitani rapped his fingers against the hard plastic case. The ring on his middle finger (a gift from a set of hands wearing rings of their own, bright and showy on bony knuckles) made a loud clacking noise, and he saw Kishimoto flinch. "Why, did you want it? I didn't think you'd be the type to like this kind of music."

            Kishimoto reached out to put his hand on the case, pulling it down to look at Mitani's face.  "Haze's Mitani.  Of course I remember."

            Mitani brushed his fingertips against Kishimoto's as he flipped the case again, once more reading over the track list.  Too many remixes.  "I thought maybe you didn't bother to remember your conquests."

            "Conquests?" He picked up another album by the same artist without looking at it.  "You played a good game.  It was hardly anything like that." The CD went back on the rack.  "Do you still play?"

            Mitani's fingernail suddenly cracked against the anti-shoplifting device nestled around the spine of the CD. "Why, do you want to beat me again?" A practiced twist and another crack and it was off.  He placed it neatly on the shelf, dangling proudly from a placard that proclaimed the 50% off sale on select items.

            And then Kishimoto's hand was around his wrist, holding him back from placing the album into the inside of his vest.  His fingers were long, more than encircling his wrist, and his skin was cool.  "What are you doing?"

            A step closer, a smile, and Mitani could see under the shine of the glasses, to his eyes.  "You didn't say you wanted it." He brought his other hand to rest against Kishimoto's and began delicately pulling his fingers away, one by one.  "I don't have enough money for it."

            "That doesn't mean you can just take it." And yet his hand fell away, and his perfect fingers curled into a fist.  Mitani traced his finger along the edge of the CD.  Kishimoto's fingers would have calluses from so many games of go.  He'd never let his skin wear down like that, too smooth and shiny. Best not to let your hobbies show on your flesh.

            Mitani pushed the CD into Kishimoto's hands, looking up at him with a half-smile.  "Guess it's yours, then." There was a line forming in between the Kaio boy's eyebrows; too much of that and he'd wrinkle by twenty.  "Of course..." Mitani smirked then, barely a lift of lips, no history to burn on his face. "They're going to think you were trying to steal it, if you take it up there like that."

            The valley on his brow grew deeper, and Kishimoto put the CD back on the shelf. "I didn't want it anyway," he said, half under his breath, and nudged his glasses up his nose.  They hadn't particularly slipped down at all.

            Mitani reached out for the case again.  "You don't win all the time," he said, and found his hand caught again.  He could feel the go calluses against his pulse.

            "No." One word, more tense and sharp than this situation really warranted, and then Kishimoto was pulling him, away from the racks, towards the door.  "I won't let you."

            He didn't bother to fight it. It was easier to not bother to fight most things.  He put his other hand into his jacket pocket, and gave the shop clerks a little smile as Kishimoto pulled him outside.  Now they'd suspect something else entirely.

            Kishimoto stopped only when they were away from the music store entirely. His glasses had slipped down now, but he didn't put them back in place. He also hadn't let go of Mitani's wrist.  His hand was sweating.

            "You're a good citizen.  Why bother?"  His hand tightened on Mitani's wrist, and he glared down at him, over the rims of his glasses.  The street lights reflected in his eyes, half-hiding them.

            "I don't win all the time," he repeated. "But if you're going to win, it should be done fairly." Kishimoto's fingers were tight on Mitani's wrist, enough that he could feel his pulse.  "You don't have to do this."

            Something started to hurt in Mitani's throat, and he laughed to clear it out. "I don't have to," he twisted his hand from Kishimoto's grip, moving around to slip his own fingers -- not a callus, not a mark -- up the other boy's sleeve, sliding along his skin feather-light until he felt goosebumps rise. "But it's what I do." A step closer and the reflected lights slipped away, revealing him.  "It makes winning easy."

            "But..." Mitani touched his other hand to Kishimoto's side, feeling him gasp at the touch.

            "And it's not so hard to be the loser this way, hm?"

            It was getting darker, and the crowd of people passing on the street was getting thicker.  Kishimoto stared at him -- that line  in his forehead deep, his eyes dark and deep -- and then grabbed his wrist again to pull him to a far less populated street.

            Afterwards, Mitani went back, and stole the CD after all.  He didn't listen to it when he got home, though; the lead singer on the cover looked too familiar.  He'd have wrinkles all across his brow before long.


End file.
